


Lady in Red

by PandaNova



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Crime Solving, Drama, Gen, Intrigue, and tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-07-02
Packaged: 2017-12-15 21:14:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/854127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PandaNova/pseuds/PandaNova
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Our intrepid heroes as given a new case involving the body of a woman found in the river, but who is the one who is guilty and can they find out before some other woman falls victim to the killer?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Moon River

**Author's Note:**

> This is in response to the prompt by the Anonymous ~A who left me a fic prompt about Sherlock Holmes and Joan Watson needing to go undercover at a restaurant and it basically being a date at the end of it. Some warnings for a semi-graphic description of a corpse. Enjoy, and comments are always encouraged!

The phone beeped at three twenty-seven in the morning. Most people would ignore a beeping phone, but in the brownstone a beep could be the only warning before something caught fire, exploded, or overflowed. Joan groaned, and rolled over before reaching blindly for the phone. She nearly knocked it off the bed side table as she grabbed it with one hand and reached for the switch for her bedside lamp with the other. 

“Watson!” Sherlock’s voice was piercing even with him being over two flights below her, but his footsteps on the landing were louder. She managed to click on the light just before he knocked. Holmes was a man constantly moving between two polar opposites, stricture structure and unstructured chaos. Still he was a man of habits; so, as always, he knocked twice before throwing open the door without so much as a sound from her. “Ah, good, you’re awake.”

“Sherlock, it’s three a.m.” her voice was scratchy with sleep and she had to push her hair out of her face to get a clear look at him.

“Your ability to observe the obvious is astounding, Watson.” He didn‘t bother to look at her, instead focusing in on her closet and throwing clothes onto the bed. “I am sure you are also aware of a text message you received within the last two minutes.”

“And you expect me to believe that wasn’t from you?” 

“Why would I text you when I could simply walk up two flights of stairs?”

“I don’t know, maybe because it’s three in the morning.” The sarcasm in her voice was biting, eyes narrow in annoyance. Her fingers shoved away the covers as she looked at the fact that he had thrown out two shirts, one tank top, one pair of jeans, and only one sock. She sighed as she straightened the clothes out as he was digging through her shoes.

“Repeating yourself will not make me more likely to sympathize with your sleep schedule, Watson.” He pulled out her sneakers, or as he called them trainers, and considered them for a moment before thrusting them back inside and pulling out a pair of ankle high black boots instead. Joan checked her phone, noting the text message was from Gregson asking them to meet him a mile and a half down river from the Brooklyn bridge, on the Manhattan side, “Besides crime never sleeps, Watson.”

“Apparently neither does Gregson.” 

“Yes, most unfortunate that.” He said as he was looking at her expectantly, and she shot him her coldest glare before he promptly walked to the doorway and turned his back to her. He was tapping his fingers impatiently against his elbow as he leaned against the doorjamb, “It would appear to be something of a delicate matter if Gregson has been called in at this time of night, and it must be of some unique circumstance if he’s also calling in our assistance.”

Joan threw on her shirt and began pulled herself into the jeans he had thrown out for her. “Any idea what we’ll be walking into?”

“No,” he threw the word over his shoulder as Joan managed to find another sock and pulled on her boots. 

“Not even a guess?”

“No data, it is bad form to theorize before you have any evidence. It biases judgment.” He turned around as she finished zipping up the other boot and was about to grab for her brush and make up when he grabbed her elbow. “No time, I already called a cab.”

“Sherlock-”

“You look fine, let’s not keep the good Captain waiting.” He quickly moved down the stair, letting go of Watson’s elbow so she could trail behind them. As Watson made it to the landing she heard the two distinct beeps of a cabbie horn, Holmes assisted her into her coat before donning his own. “Best grab an umbrella, it looks like rain.”

“Let’s hope it’s not rain, and that the crime scene has coffee.”

It was rain, when they entered the cab it was misting, and by the time they reached the crime scene it was pouring. Joan opened her umbrella as they exited the cab, Sherlock paying the cabbie before joining her beneath the cover as Gregson hurried up to them. He handed them both gloves that they immediately put on.

“Glad you could make it, I was about to wrap everything up here.” The captain said, as he moved them through the ticker tape, giving orders to a few of the cops to keep the news van that had driven up away from the scene. “We’ve got a tarp over the area when the rain started, but if you can make this quick Holmes -”

“Don’t worry about your crime scene, Gregson.” Sherlock replied, with no small amount of arrogance, “It is obvious the victim was found in the river and thus most of the evidence is gone already.”

“Yeah, this way.” He led them both over to an area between two large flood lights. The bright white light mixed with the lights of the four patrol cars lining the scene and made it all look rather eerie, faces changing from white, to blue, to red. There was a large blue tarp outlining a certain area of pavement, and it was there he was bringing them. 

“Alright, lift it up so we can show Mr. Holmes what we got.” said a voice to their left, and Joan realized instantly it was Detective Bell. It seemed he didn’t sleep either. Three officers quickly raised the tarp showing them their grotesque prize.

“We got a call around two this morning, a transient saw some one dump something into the river and went to grab the nearest police car. The local patrol found this.” Gregson said, indicating a rather large blue trunk. “And we found her inside.” He pointed to the obvious sign of attention, the body of a woman. “White female, age mid-thirties, brunette. That’s about all we have on her until we get her to the lab.”

“Any description on the suspect?” Sherlock asked as the tarp was rolled aside and the lights directed over the scene.

“No, just his car. Black, four door sedan, nothing else.” Gregson replied.

Joan and Sherlock leaned over the corpse, she was deathly pale from having quite a large amount of her blood drained. Her body lay face up on another large blue tarp, eyes still open, but unfocused and facial expression neutral. Joan touched one arm, noting that rigor mortis had already passed. Across her torso and mainly her breasts were a series of gashes and slashes, everything from puncturing to superficial. The rest of her body appeared untouched as they both examined her. 

“We’re thinking the perp was enraged, judging by the fact he stabbed or slashed her at least 15 times. We’ll get a full count at the lab.” Gregson explained, but Sherlock wasn’t listening. He had gotten up and began to pace, his eyes on the corpse in front of him as he circled her. Joan remained kneeled, looking over the wounds.

“Obviously she hasn’t been in the water very long, no sign of bloating. There is a slight blackening to the end of her fingers, so I would estimate time of death between two and three days. Let me know if your coroner agrees.”

Gregson nodded as Sherlock stopped at her ankles and leaned over again. “She’s been bound, before death judging by the bruising. Was she still bound when the trunk was opened?”

“No. No sign of anything holding her, just shoved in. No blood either, so obviously she was killed someplace else.” It was Marcus Bell who answered him this time as he watched Holmes pick up his pacing again. “She was also nude, no personal effects found in the trunk either.”

Sherlock nodded gravely, his left forefinger tapping against his lips as he made another circuit around the corpse. Then he stopped, and quickly went prone, making him eye level with the side of the victim’s torso. Head tilting in concentration. “Her breasts have been removed.” He said after a moment.

“Are we looking at the same body here, Holmes?” Gregson said as he crossed to stand by the consulting detective. His eyes on the body beneath him, and confused as he stared down at her. 

“Not the mammary nor the fat around it, obviously.” Holmes explained after a moment, reaching out a gloved hand to lift the breast and expose a pair of crescent shaped cuts where the breast met the rib. “It would seem our victim had implants, and our perpetrator felt need to remove them. Then used the marks to try and cover it up” He looked down, gazing at the body of the woman before he pointed to a particular wound on her right side. Tt did not fit with the rest as it was between two ribs and was far enough removed to be a good six or seven centimeters from the nearest gash on her chest, and much more precise than the several gashes around her breasts. “I am guessing that wound there is the ultima ictu, the rest were done post mortem.”

Sherlock stood up again, gazing down for more information as he and Gregson began speaking in a rushed conversation. “I am guessing you’ve already had a rape kit drawn up?”

“Yeah, but with her being in the water we’re not expecting much.” Gregson replied as the crime scene photographers began taking photos of what he had pointed out. 

“And nothing at all was found with the body?”

“Some blood under the fingernails, we already retrieved that and sent it back to the lab, but there is a good chance it‘s her own. Also a bit of dirt on her feet that we did a scraping of.” 

“Good, if you’d give me the reports on the findings there it would assist me greatly.” 

Joan was barely listening, her eyes focused in on the face of the woman. “I think I know her.” Joan said suddenly and everything around her hushed, as she gazed down at the face. Sherlock crossed to her, kneeling down beside her. “I’ve seen her on television, doesn‘t she run a cooking show?”

Sherlock stared down at the face for a moment before pulling out his phone, and quickly bringing up a search engine before pulling up a photo and placing it beside her. “I believe we have ID’d your victim, Captain. Paula Aberdeen, host and chef of What’s Cooking Tonight.” 

Joan frowned, something else was catching her attention now. She lifted a hand and pulled away the hair that had been plastered by the water. There it was, “Sherlock.” He turned back to her again, pocketing his phone as she pointed to it. “There’s a gash here, corner of the mouth.”

“So there is,” He leaned close enough that his nose almost touched the corpse’s cheek before he pulled a small pen light out of his pocket and thrust it toward Joan. “Take the torch, and I’m going to get her mouth open.”

“Are you sure that’s necessary?” Asked Bell, but Sherlock merely waved a hand dismissively before shoving his gloved hands against Ms. Aberdeen’s teeth, and pulled open the jaw with little resistance. 

“Now, Watson, if you would please.” He held her jaw open and head leaned slightly back as Joan leaned over to get a better look.

It only took a few moments before Joan found what she was looking for, her brows pinching as she shone the light a few more times before sitting back. “Her tongue’s been cut out.”

“Yes,” replied Sherlock “Yes, it has.”

The crime scene was cleared, and Sherlock had insisted they come along to notify next of kin despite Joan’s instance. Sherlock Holmes’s ability to understand that a victim’s grief was zero, and Joan felt a head ache coming on before they even reached Ms. Aberdeen’s upper east side apartment.

“Apparently she has a live in boyfriend,” Sherlock explained as he was still using his phone to search for information on their victim. “A rather mousy man who works in IT by the name of Richard Cummings. They’ve been paramours for almost five years if this is to be believed.” 

They stopped outside the rather new construction apartment complex. It was rather distinct with it’s wave shaped balconies and couture shops on the bottom floor, as well as the rather large glass doors leading to the apartment proper. They were quickly allowed in and led to the tenth floor where Ms. Aberdeen‘s apartment was. They had only knocked once before the door came bursting open and there was the face of a their man. Mr. Richard Cummings was every bit as mousy as Sherlock had said, his brown hair was combed over, face gaunt and unshaved, his clothing rumpled and eyes darkened by lack of sleep. When he saw Detective Bell’s uniform he paled.

“Are you Richard Cummings?” Asked Detective Bell. 

“Yes, uh, I’m Richard.” His voice was as mousy as his appearance, and it wavered with nerves

“I’m Detective Bell, with the NYPD, and these are my associates Ms. Watson and Mr. Holmes. We need to ask you a few questions.” Bell waited a few minutes and Richard quickly let them in. 

“Uh, sure. Just follow me.” He led them down a rather wide corridor to a large living space, the walls crisp white with matching white floor tiles. Joan’s heel clicked against them as her eyes took in the space. It had two recesses around a rather large television, the recesses painted gray with a white repeating circular outlines, a waist high lemon tree sat in one recess, while the other held a beautiful golden statue of Buddha in the lotus position. The place was expensively furnished, and felt barely lived in with very few personal effects. A sheepskin rug sat under a mahogany table and around it were low backed white leather seats, two recliners and a three seat couch. He offered them the couch before taking one of the recliners himself, his body language all the more tense as he sat forward in the chair and his eyes on Bell.

Bell seemed equally tense, it was easy to see next of kin duty was not his preferred job. “I’m here for inform you that the body of Paula Aberdeen was found this morning near the East River.” 

“Oh god,” Richard paled more than either of them thought possible, Joan stood immediately afraid he was going into shock, but he let out a stuttered breath and seemed to regain himself. 

Joan slowly sat back down as Detective Bell continued. “When was the last time you saw Ms. Aberdeen?”

Richard was still pale, shaking as he looked down at his hands. He swallowed loudly before responding, “A week ago,” and Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

“You two were living together, yes?” Sherlock’s vocals were sharp, as he looked down at the man in his chair. “You are going to have us believe you haven’t heard from her in a week?”

“We, uh, we had a fight.” He stuttered out as he tried to shy away from Sherlock’s intense gaze.

“Why don’t you just tell us what happened, ok?” Bell said, encouragingly and shooting a look at Sherlock that had him backing away from the man. Richard nodded slowly, before continuing.

“We were at the Saint Joseph’s Charity Ball, I didn’t want to go but Paula insisted, said that we were expected to be there and it would be bad for the show if she went alone.” His words stopped and started, at times stuttering and Joan felt bad for him. “She spent the whole night with this dark haired guy and I finally had enough. I told her I was done with it, I was going home. She laughed at me, told me that I was over reacting, but I told her I’d had enough. Every time we went to one of these functions she was just. . .not Paula anymore. Anyway, she said if I wasn’t willing to support her then maybe she just wouldn’t come back home at all. I didn’t think she was serious until she didn’t come back that night.”

“And you haven’t heard from her since?” Bell asked, suspicion obvious in his tone, but Richard didn’t seem to notice it.

“No, I mean. . .she did this before, right before the show aired. I thought it was just that she needed some time alone.” He was nervously ringing his hands now, his eyes averted

“Has anyone seen Paula since then?” Sherlock asked, his gaze causing Richard to pale again.

“No, I-I called some of her friends, but none of them had heard from her.”

“You didn’t file a missing person’s report?” Bell pressed.

“No. I was worried but I figured she told her friends to not tell me if they’d seen her. I never thought -” He lost it then, head in his hands as he shook with muffled sobs. Joan frowned up at Sherlock. It was enough to keep him from pressing until he had calmed down. 

“We found a blue trunk at the scene, did it belong to you?” Sherlock finally asked, voice clearly showing irritation.

“A blue trunk?” Richard parroted, before shaking his head, “No, we never had anything like that.” 

Sherlock nodded then as Bell rose up and informed him he needed to come down to the station to make a statement. He didn’t argue and soon they were downstairs, but Sherlock stopped outside the patrol car. “Go ahead, Detective Bell.” He said, his hand on Joan’s elbow stopping her, and a slight tug keeping her by him. “We’ll head back to the brownstone. Tell Gregson to email me the test results when he gets them.” And with a tug he began walking them down the street, Joan almost having to jog to keep up with his sudden pace.

“What the hell was that about?” She hissed at him as he finally slowed down and let go of her elbow.

“Well it should be as obvious to you as it is to me that Mr. Cummings was lying about the trunk, if not about everything else. We are going to wait until the detective leaves and then we’re going back to that apartment.”

“We’re going to break in?” Joan’s voice was venomous, eyes narrowing at him.

“Yes, now if you’d please stop attempting to appeal to my morality with your gaze and follow me , we can do so without being interrupted.” With that he turned and began marching back the way they came, giving her a few moments to decide before she hurried along after him. “The point of being a consulting detective, Watson. Is that we can do things outside the official capacity in order to find and catch criminals, and that sometimes means doing things outside the scope of the law. The sooner you get rid of your puritan ideal of good the better it’ll be for both of us.”

Joan rolled her eyes as he opened the door for them both and started the trek back up to the tenth floor.


	2. The Lady is a Tramp

When they got to the door, Sherlock decided it was a perfect opportunity to test Joan’s lock picking skills. So crouched down, in front of the door, she fought with the tension wrench and small needle pick while Sherlock kept a look out, and berated her form.

“No, no, hold the tension wrench up slightly, there, and now the pick to the left. This is an art Watson, not a surgery, you must feel the lock on the very tips of your fingers.” Sherlock intoned as he sat beside her, and Joan was staring daggers into the lock only because she couldn’t do the same to him. “Watson, you must relax if you expect to do anything more than scratch the surface of that lock.”

“Do you just want to do this?” She hissed at him between clenched teeth, her eyes catching him in her periphery as he leaned every so nonchalant against the wall near the doorway.

“Wouldn’t dream of it Watson, you must learn to do this yourself.” He waved a hand at her dismissively, and she felt herself tense up with the want to drop the wrench and just hit him. Then the lock clicked and his hand twisted open the door. “Good, ten minutes six.” 

“Next time, you pick the lock.” Joan growled at him before standing up, and they walked back into Ms. Aberdeen’s white on white apartment. Holmes was already past her, his phone out and taking a few photos before moving out of the living room and toward the white and gray hall.

“So how, exactly, did you know Richard was lying?” Joan asked as she took a chance to look around the living room again, the scent of lemon in the air from the tree. Still, nothing stood out, the same white leather chairs, the same white sheepskin rug. No hidden blood splatter that she could see, and with the wounds they observed there would be splatter wherever the event took place.

“He stuttered and stalled through out the whole of the interview, but when asked about the trunk he immediately gave a clear answer.” He was in the bedroom when Watson caught up with him. The white coloration followed here, but it was contrasted with a beautiful blue that Watson had to admit did look close to the color of their trunk. There was a large luxurious bed that made Watson remember just how little sleep she had gotten, with white sheets that retailed for around five thousand dollars. The duvet was something she’d seen in a rather fancy interior design program, white with a flower off pattern and silk underside. There were the mahogany shelves again, and Joan walked over to them looking at the pictures of Paula and Richard. It was on a beach resort, and they seemed happy even if Richard was sunburned. A number of random articles lined the room, but still nothing stood out.

“So because he actually managed to answer, that means he’s lying?” Joan asked, watching as he leaned over the linens picking a hair off of it before rubbing his fingers together to rid himself of it.

“It is in complete contrast to everything else he said. His shoulders tensed, his hands clutched at one another, in fact his whole body language said on edge.” He was at the end of the bed now, his hands rubbing over the carpet before laying himself completely prone against it. “Ah-ha!” He shouted, standing up and inviting her over with a swing of his arm. “See there?” He pointed at the carpet, and Joan simply shrugged before he was prone again and tugging her down with him. “It’s lighter here, but that’s not all, look at the depression. If I am not mistaken, that should be exactly the size of our trunk.”

Sherlock reached in his pocket to pull out his phone again and took several shots of the area before looking around the room again. “Let’s see if there is anything interesting on their computers.” He said after a moment and took off again through the apartment, there was a spare bedroom and it was there that Joan found him. He had opened a Macbook and was quickly booting up the system.

“Aren’t you at all concerned about us getting caught here?” Joan whispered, and Sherlock lifted a finger up to silence her. She rolled her eyes, turning to look around the spare bedroom/office. This room had considerable more clutter and she assumed this was the one space in the house that was Richard’s. While Sherlock continued to fight with the computer, he was finding a way around the password lock, she helped herself to a look around. There were two desks, one where the laptop was and another that seemed to be covered in small scraps of paper. Joan reached over, pulling up one and setting it aside before grabbing another. “There wasn’t any jewelry on Aberdeen right?” she asked.

“No, no personal effects.” Sherlock responded, eyes still on the computer.

Joan frowned, turning over another piece and bringing two of them over to him. “These are wedding invitations, trials anyway from different printers in New York.”

“It would seem that Ms. Aberdeen was planning to become Mrs. Cummings,” Sherlock responded, grabbing one of the papers and gazing over them with keen interest. “Interesting that there was no sign of the ring then. . .”

“Our killer could have kept it.” Joan responded, and Sherlock nodded in agreement before turning back to the computer and removing a small USB device from it. “What is that?” 

“Blue-Dragon. It’s a wonderful piece of software developed to force boot a system. It also has several top of the line password crackers which just got me past Mr. Cummings rather embarrassing five key password.” Sherlock was now concentrated entirely on the computer, bringing up several documents at a speed Joan was having a hard time following. A few spreadsheets, some random bits of internet history, emails. Joan leaned over his shoulder eyeing the computer with the same keen amount of interest. “This amount of normalcy seems almost deliberate. No pornography, not so much as a messenger. Nothing at all save one bit of interest which would seem to be a congratulatory email from a Ms. Rebecca Verace, a well known provider of couture wedding fashions.”

“You follow wedding fashions?” Joan asked, eyebrow raised and voice speaking distrust.

“Only as a passing interest,” He said dismissively

“We already knew that she was planning of getting married, I don’t see how that’s of interest.”

“Except that the email came to Richard. One would think that if it was a wedding dress it would be to the bride-to-be not the groom.” Sherlock then rifled through a few drawers of the desk before coming out with a small leather book, “Ah, old habits die hard even in this age.” 

“What is that?”

“A contact book, we’ll use this to find a few of Ms. Aberdeen’s friends and see what they thought of her planned nuptials.” He typed various information into his phone before shutting the computer down and returning the book to where it belonged. “But first, let’s go see Ms. Verace and see if there is a particular reason she has been in contact with Mr. Cummings.”

Ms. Verace’s couture shop was in SoHo and they decided to get themselves breakfast before heading down to her shop. Joan had never been so happy to taste coffee before, as her usual preference was tea, and was eating her way through a bagel sandwich when they caught a cab to the shop. Sherlock explained that it was still too busy to take the subway, and they needed to get there before Ms. Verace was unavailable. 

They arrived outside of the glass fronted shop, a dress that would cost several years of Watson’s surgeon salary in the window, as Holmes looked around. “It’s truly disgusting.” He said, and Joan found herself caught by surprise by his announcement.

“What do you mean?”

“SoHo, Greenwich and TriBeCa have all become major centers for the monetary incline, thrusting out their original residents and then capitalizing on the fact that they once housed such residents.” He gestured to the large cast iron front buildings intermixed with newer construction, before turning back to her. “Art galleries no artist from the original SoHo artisans would ever show their art in, and yet here they plaster their names everywhere.” His nostrils were flaring with agitation as he stared around himself. “Displacing those the neighborhood originally held so that those of means could capitalize upon their interests.”

“Sherlock.” He snapped out of his monologue with her voice, and her expression showed she was unmoved, “We’re here to solve a case, not comment upon the capitalist machine.”

“Quite right.” He said and stepped to the door of Verace Designs to allow Joan within before following himself. More gorgeous dresses awaited in everything from the standard white and ivory to shockingly bright modern colors and floral prints. Tile floors to amplify what was quite a small space and the standard mirrors with standing pedestal for would-be-brides to stare at their dress from every possible angle.

They were met by a well dressed blonde, who quickly crossed to Joan with a bright smile. “Oh my god,” the girl exclaimed, “I absolutely love your coat, is that from the Gabbana 2011 collection?”

“Uh,” Joan said, adjusting the black wool coat under the girl‘s shop gaze, “It’s an antique actually. My mother’s.” 

“Well it looks amazing,” Her smile seemed to decrease in it’s enthusiasm as she adjusted the blue spring suit she was wearing, “So, when‘s the date?”

Joan was confused, before looking up at Sherlock and then making the connection. “Oh! Oh - uh- we’re no-”

“Still settling on a date,” Sherlock cut in, his arm snaking around Joan’s shoulders to bring her close with an easy smile. “Should be in the spring next year, but Joanie here heard all about this shop and had to come take a look for herself.”

“A spring bride,” The blonde smiled bright again, and with more concentration on Sherlock. Joan knew that gaze, when Sherlock said his accent got him dates he wasn’t kidding. He hugged her a little closer and she was distracted by her want to kill him. “Well, we’re mostly full for sit downs until next month, but I’d be more than happy to set up an appointment for you-”

“Actually,” Sherlock said, with an easy grin on his lips as he moved his hand so it was crossing along her back and resting on Joan’s hip. She kept an easy smile, but there was an edge to her eyes that kept Sherlock’s eyes off of her. “We were hoping to have something special, we heard that Miss Verace does commissioned dresses.” He nudged her lightly with his hip and Joan forced her smile a bit wider.

“Yes, we were wanting to get something special done up for our day.” She said with false enthusiasm

“Sparing no expense of course,” Sherlock said with a cheeky grin and the girl smiled back with as much, if not more, enthusiasm.

“Well, normally there is a wait for a consultation, but Miss Verace is in the building right now and I’ll see if she’s has time meet you.”

The girl left the desk, disappearing behind a door and the moment he was gone Joan elbowed Sherlock in the ribs. “Fiancée, seriously?” She whispered at him, as Sherlock coughed with the force of the blow.

“I saw you making eyes at the dress in the window and this is our best chance of seeing her. You’ve been my bodyguard, my valet, and everything else, why would this bother you?”

“Back then I was your sober companion, I had to let you call me whatever you wanted.”

“Would you rather we not question Ms. Verace?”

Joan took a breath, forcing herself to calm down as she glared at him. “No, but next time you will warn me before we have to act like we’re intimate. And if you ever call me Joanie again, I will hurt you.”

“Warn you?” Sherlock was smirking now, that self-assured arrogance on full display, “Despite all appearances I didn’t have this planned, I wasn’t sure it was going to work before she keyed in on your coat and it became obvious that opulence and a promise of money were the fastest way to getting what we needed.” 

Joan was about to argue when Tiffany returned and they were once more smiles, Holmes wrapping his arm around her shoulders again. “Miss Verace will see you,” she said with a false sweetness, before guiding them into the door she just came from. The back of the shop was much less put together than the front. Rolls of material, dress forms, papers, and several people moving around as they were guided past the working floor to an office space. 

The posh interiors were forgotten as a simple wood desk in a windowed room were all that was shown of the office space. Miss Rebecca Verace was a girl in her mid-twenties, African-american, with dark skin and full lips, piercing brown eyes, and hair that was straightened and fell beautifully over her shoulders. She was a remarkable looking woman and Joan wondered if she had worked in modeling before starting her own couture line. Everything about her was kept in a flawless state, perfectly done make up, a white dress that was probably self designed, and accessories in bright orange and greens. 

“Ah, you must be the two Tiffany told me about.” She smiled serenely and indicated to the seats as she focused in on Joan immediately, “I see what Tiffany meant, you are gorgeous.” She said it in an easy way that was easy to be believed, her dark eyes focused on her, “I can see why you want something special done, dresses aren’t often catered for your skin tone.”

“Actually,” Sherlock cut in, his easy smile of before gone, “I am afraid we’re here under false pretenses. Ms. Watson and myself actually work for the NYPD and we wanted to question you.”

Her demeanor didn’t change, her body stayed relaxed in the high backed chair as she looked from one to the other. “I see, you could have simply told Tiffany that. Now I have to live with the disappointment of not being able to make Miss Watson here the perfect gown.” She leaned back in her chair, looking from Sherlock to Joan and then back. “So, what did you want to talk to me about?”

“Richard Cummings, you were making a dress for his intended Miss Aberdeen, yes?” Sherlock said, his eyes focused in on Rebecca’s face.

Her expression soured at the name, she leaned forward resting her elbows on the chair. “I was, until about two weeks ago. Then she stormed in here, called me a whore and demanded her money back. I informed her the paper she signed said no refunds, then I had to have security carry her out of here.”

“Could this be because you were in fact having liaisons with Mr. Cummings?” The way Sherlock said it was without any sort of judgment but Rebecca did not seem to take it that way. She stood up, eyes glaring down at him as he sat in the midbacked leather chair. 

“No. I knew Richie from college, I was making this dress as a favor to an old friend, then I met her. Paula is a narcissistic bitch, and the only thing she did in here was bad-mouth Richie. Laughing about all the men she slept around on him with, talking how she wasn’t sure she was going to go through with the marriage.” She sat back down in her chair, the easy body language of before gone and replaced with tense and contained anger.

“So I called Richie, had him meet me at the coffee shop around the corner and I told him everything she said. Poor guy called me a liar, said I was jealous of him and stormed out.” Rebecca shook her head, there was pity in her expression. “Then the next day Paula comes storming in here shouting and screaming. After I had her removed I decided that Richie was a lost cause.” 

“Was that the last time you talked to Mr. Cummings?” Joan asked, and Rebecca sighed.

“No, he called Tuesday of last week. He was sobbing, said Paula had left him, so I met him for a drink at a bar on 27th. Apparently they split ways at a party and she hadn’t come back. He was beside himself, got himself drunk and I had my driver take him back home. Then I left in a cab, I haven’t heard from him since.”

“Thank you, Miss Verace.” Sherlock said, standing and heading for the door. Joan followed, but Rebecca stopped her.

“If you ever do need a dress, here’s my card. I think I have just the thing for you.” She smiled wide and Joan nodded taking the card. 

“Sorry again for barging in here.”

“Not at all.” She assured, smiling easily and showing her to the door. 

Once they were free of the door Sherlock started walking with a vicious pace and Joan was left trying to run up to him. “Well that was a waste of time.” He shouted, several pedestrians turning to stare at him, and suddenly stopped and started hailing down a cab. 

“What do you mean?”

“I had him pegged for an adulterer , turns out Richie Cummings is as faithful as he is pathetic.” His phone ringing stopped his tirade and he opened it with an irritated glance. “Yes, Detective Bell.”

The conversation only lasted a few moments before he clicked it shut. “It would appear that we’re needed at the 11th precinct, another body has been found.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has commented, left kudos, and read along so far! I hope you're still enjoying the story, and will return for the next installment!


	3. I'll Be Seeing You

Bell met them when they got up to the third floor, handing over a file to Sherlock as he lead them toward one of the conference rooms. 

“The rest of the files are in here.” Bell explained as he opened the door, and let them in. Several boxes were piled on the conference desk and Sherlock, his attention riveted on the file in front of him.

“Thank you, Detective.” Sherlock responded after a moment, shutting the door behind him and leaving Joan and himself with the files.

“I thought you said another body was found.” Joan asked, looking at the boxes.

“In a manner of speaking, yes.” He handed the file over to her as he began to pile up the boxes, “These are the cold case files for all females between the ages of 18 and 40, and so far we’ve had one similar case. My hope is we may find more.”

Joan read over the file, it appeared to be for a Mrs. Juarez, age 32, stuffed into a trunk and thrown in the river. The difference was the wounds. Mrs. Juarez was strangled, not stabbed. “Are you sure this is connected?” Joan asked, looking over the case again, she had to admit that the bindings were similar but without the rope it was impossible to tell. Sherlock told her there was as much to be found from the way a man ties his knots as from a murder weapon, and here they had neither.

“Not yet, but the sooner we get these to the Brownstone we can try to see if there is a connection.” Sherlock said, looking at her expectantly, and she sighed picking up several boxes as they headed out of the conference room. A patrol car took them and their four boxes of case files back to the Brownstone. One they were through the door Sherlock sequestered himself around the mantle and began picking across case files. 

Joan fed Clyde, in his fancy new terrarium, before heading to sit with Sherlock around the table. They each took a box, pining up the photos they found relevant, cross referencing with each other from each case as the day wore on. It was around midnight that Joan fell asleep, head on the table with a duvet wrapped around her. Sherlock still hunched over in his chair, setting different ones aside. At one point in the night she awoke, only to have Sherlock whisper a few platitudes to ease her back into sleep. It was morning when Sherlock woke her with tea and scones, the smile of an epiphany on his lips. Joan groaned as she sat up, stretching and rubbing her neck as he placed her breakfast in front of her.

“I don’t remember buying scones,” she said, fingers running through her hair as she stared down at the plate.

“No, I popped out last night for them, had a sudden craving.” His eyes were wide, and body language restless. Joan already knew he hadn’t slept yet, as he began spreading things out for her, an expectant look on his face. “Now, I believe I have discovered our killer. I would like to see if you do the same.”

Joan rolled her eyes, taking a sip of her tea as she turned in her chair to look up at the wall. Several photos were pinned as she started looking over them and the connected case files. “So we have six women, of varying ages, who were strangled and then put in trunks.” She flipped another case file, eyes looking over the relevant information before looking back up to the wall. “So his M.O. is obviously attractive women, younger than forty.” She stood up, taking her tea with her to gaze up at the wall, a frown on her lips. “But these women are mostly prostitutes or transients. No one with close family connection, why kill Paula Aberdeen?” Joan tilted her head, but Sherlock smirked.

“Notice how else she deviates from the pattern, these women were all bound, then strangled. Most likely sexually assaulted as well, but Ms. Aberdeen,” he said, indicating to her photo on the wall, “was mutilated, implants removed, this shows some sign of rage. Perhaps a personal vendetta?”

“But what about the tongue?” Joan asked, looking back up to the pictures of the women, “I see no similar mutilation, and that seems ritualistic.” 

Sherlock shook his head, “it’s quite possible that our killer was intent on mutilating her, or was attempting to make a statement. It is not unheard of for serial killers to deviate from their pattern, especially in the case of some one they felt personal rage against.” He was oscillating back and forth now, eyes on her as he indicated with his hand for her to continue.

“I still don’t see how this finds our guy. We have connected cases, yes, but no forensic evidence.”

“Incorrect!” Sherlock cried, pointing to the case file of one Ms. Dartworth, “We had here, two fibers. A synthetic cotton blend, light blue, from a shirt, and a white hair. At first it was thought it was the hair of our killer, the detective force believing him to be a man in his late fifties, but very few men of that age have the strength to bind and strangle such women. In fact, when I asked for an opinion on it from a colleague he assured me it was in fact animal hair matching the Swartkoppersie, or Blackhead Persian sheep.”

“The sheepskin rug,” Joan said after a moment, looking to Sherlock as he grinned back at her. “So you think Cummings did this, that it’s a hair transfer from the sheepskin rug in his apartment?”

“Gregson has already secured a warrant, and Detective Bell is going to get a fiber from the rug to compare.” He looked smug as he stared up at the wall, but the face fell somewhat as he stared at it. “It’s a pity really, I had thought my initial hypothesis wrong and the case much more intricate than I had originally thought. It would seem instead that I was right, but merely had not realized the scope of Mr. Cumming’s crimes.” He seemed to shake out of his reverie, grabbing a scone and going to sit in his arm chair. “We shall see what the hair comparison returns with, until then it is bad to speculate.”

Joan frowned as she grabbed another mug of tea and brought it to him, sitting on the floor in front of him with her scones and her own tea mug. “Are you upset that you didn’t catch him sooner?”

“I am…disappointed.” He said reluctantly, staring over her head towards Angus and the bookshelves, “I had perused one or two of these files before, but had not made the connection. The crimes seemed too commonplace and I did not give them the due research they deserved. My attention diverted by other crimes and cases.” His jaw tensed as he looked down at her, Joan looking up at him sympathetically.

“You couldn’t have known, Sherlock. Being good at what you do doesn’t make you omniscient.” He said and Sherlock merely shook his head. 

“No, I should have seen the similarities Watson. I shall be more careful in the future.” His voice was grave, his body tense, but Joan couldn’t figure out something to say to comfort him. After a few moments in silence she stood, and taking both their mugs to the sink went upstairs to shower. She couldn’t wait to actually put a brush through her hair, it probably looked like a rat’s nest between yesterday’s early morning and sleeping on the table. She could feel a knot building in her neck as well, and decided that Sherlock deserved some time alone.

She had just finished putting on her make-up when Sherlock throws open the door without so much as knocking. He looks at her with a pointed eye and grabs the edge of the long gray top she’s wearing to pull her out. 

“We need to go, now.” Sherlock’s voice offers no room for argument, but Joan digs her heels in anyway.

“What are you talking about?” Her glare is icy, and Sherlock forces himself to still.

“I just got a call from Gregson, Detective Bell served the warrant to Mr. Cummings.”

“And the fibers?”

“Damned the fibers, Watson!” His sudden change in tone startled her, and he took a deep breath before continuing. “Gregson is downstairs waiting to take us back to Aberdeen’s apartment. We need to go, now. I shall explain on the way.” Joan didn’t argue, following his insistent tug as he guided her to the landing. They moved downstairs in silence, and Joan noted that somewhere between the shower, reading, and then getting dressed again night had fallen. 

Gregson was downstairs, standing in the hallway before leading them out to his car. The evening was as noisy as any in New York, but Joan shifted with ill ease. They slid in and drove off, Gregson not even turning on the radio. 

They were stopped for the toll to get across the bridge when Sherlock finally spoke. “Mr. Cummings is dead, it would appear he killed himself.” Sherlock seemed upset even speaking of it, his hands clenched into tight fists and eyes dead ahead.

Joan shifted again, feeling some unknown weight in his words. “Are they sure?”

“If a man dangling from the support structure of his bedroom by a phone cord can be construed as anything else, I for one, would love to hear it.” His words were biting, and Joan fell back into silence for the rest of the trip.

This was her first genuine suicide, there had been the first case she and Sherlock had but that had been a staged suicide, this was more genuine. There was a note, alcohol and glasses scattered, the obvious sighs of a man distressed. Half the apartment had been turned upside down, the calm order of before gone. It was hard to believe it was the same place. 

Sherlock had cornered Detective Bell and Joan quickly followed. 

“He showed no signs of suicidal ideation while you were questioning him?” Sherlock questioned, voice tense.

“The dude was shaken, sure. But nothing that led me to think he’d do this.” Marcus responded, his stance showing how defensive he was feeling.

“He said nothing at the interview?”

“Nah, and his alibi checked out. He was seen on cameras letting him into his apartment at Aberdeen’s estimated time of death.”

“The coroner returned a definite on that?” Sherlock pushed, his taller frame trying to be intimidating, but Bell stood his ground.

“Yeah, estimates the time of death to be Friday, between nine pm and midnight.” 

Sherlock nodded, a sign of distress in his body language as he looked around the apartment. His plan was unraveling, and she could see the irritation and guilt of being wrong written in his movements.

“Sherlock,” she said softly, her hand on his wrist for a moment before removing. He seemed to center back in, nodding slightly to himself.

“Have your men look around for any strange effects, especially checking the closets for any hidden chambers. I’ll assist momentarily.” Sherlock’s vocals were neutral once more, and Bell nodded before heading back toward the bedroom. Sherlock leaned down and pulled a fiber out of the rug and placed it into a small plastic vial he had in his pocket. “Shall we, Watson? I must warn you what you see may be unpleasant.”

“I think I can handle it.” Joan said with confidence. They moved into the bedroom they had been in that morning. It, like the rest of the apartment, was in disarray. Some of Paula’s clothes were strewn about, but the obvious sign of attention was the body of Richard Cumming’s. He was recognizable, but only barely. His eyes were turned upward, face purple with bruising, and tongue swollen. A bit of foam was at the corner of his mouth, and his fingers were coated in the blood from his palms, his death had not been an easy one. No one had moved him so he was limp hanging from a structural hook that had been used for a chandelier. He was kneeling, in his boxes and a white tee-shirt. 

“He’s been dead about two hours.” Sherlock said quietly, leaning down to look at his face and taking in the grotesque mark of death. “A suicide, I see no signs of anything suggesting otherwise.”

“The state of the apartment -” Said Gregson, but Sherlock held up a hand to stop him.

“Is a sign of a man in grief,” Sherlock’s face was tight as he spoke, turning away to walk up to Gregson, “You said there was a note?”

“Yeah, found it taped to his door.”

“May I see it?” 

Gregson led them back the way they came and into the kitchen where the crime team had set up shop. They were handed gloves, though Sherlock already wore some from his own stash, and Joan gladly took a pair. The note was almost unreadable, smeared with wetness Joan assumed to be tears. Sherlock sniffed the yellow paper, torn from a legal sheet, turning it over before looking around at the team.

“Has anyone found the pad this came from?” He was met with silence and shaking heads, he looked back at the paper and then moved with it in hand to the office they had broken into before. He handed the paper to Joan, eyes taking in the state of the office. “Read that aloud for me, would you Watson?”

Joan looked down at the paper, attempting to decipher the shaky scrawl before beginning. “I am so sorry, I should have known I would pay for everything I’ve done. My dear Paula I did this to you, it’s all my fault, and I can only pay for it with my own life. Richie.”

Sherlock was pacing the small space, his eyes taking in everything he saw. He pulled out the desk drawers, desperate to find the notepad, he thrust the contact book at her. “Check the writing, tell me if it’s the same.”

“Sherlock - I don’t -” Joan stammered, and Sherlock turned on her the look in his eyes intense as he opened the notebook in her fingers. 

“He has a strong curl to his e and p, compare the two closely and remember what I’ve taught you.” His voice was a whisper, his eyes looking intently at her before he moved to the closet and opened it up. He pulled the pen light out of his pocket his eyes concentrating on the inside walls of the closet.

They had gone over writing recently and the tells that can help with deciphering typewriters, but not handwriting, not in any great detail. Still she compared the two and concentrated on the difference in the writing before stopping. “They’re the same.” 

Sherlock nodded, tapping along the back of the closet before stopping. “Give me a hand here.” He said, thrusting his hand out to her with the light. “I need you to shine this light, and do not stop, clear?” Joan nodded her understanding as she leveled the light. Then he started kicking the wall.

“Sherlock!”

“The light, Watson!” Several police officers came rushing in, including Gregson.

“Holmes, what the hell are you doing?” The Captain shouted over the sound of Sherlock’s foot hitting the wall. Then it gave way, and Gregson went quiet. Sherlock reached in and pulled out a purse, setting it down carefully before reaching in to bring out another, and another. 

“Oh my god,” Joan intoned, leaning down to look at the first bag as several people were lining up to help Holmes remove them. “Gloria Juarez.” Sherlock stopped, immediately coming over to her and taking the wallet she had removed from her hand. He frowned, gazing down at it before nodding and handing it to Gregson.

“I believe we have found your killer, Captain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has commented and kudo'd the story so far. I hope you are enjoying the case as much as I am enjoying writing it.


	4. Windmills of Your Mind

It was another late night when they returned to the brownstone. Three unknown victims were identified in the purses they found, though no bodies discovered, and Gregson was going to be breaking the news on the case in the morning. Sherlock had stayed silent on the drive, and continued his contemplation as she shut the door behind them, locking the deadbolt before moving into the living room. Sherlock had already begun taking down the photos, and she watched from behind the brown dining room table they never seemed to use for eating. He was eyeing the photos as he placed them back into their proper space in silence, and she gripped the chair in front of her to steady her nerves.

“Sherlock-” Joan started, but he tensed and she fell quiet again. She kept looking at the cases below her, her fingers gripping the chair tighter. “I don’t think Richard Cummings killed Paula Aberdeen.” She voiced, trying to display obvious confidence despite her white knuckles on the chair.

Sherlock stopped, turning to her slowly with a look of confused wonder on his face. “Under what reasoning?”

“They weren’t killed in the same way. The wounds are completely different from his previous victims.” She argued, and Sherlock kept staring at her, blue eyes intense.

“It was a personal vendetta.” He responded, voice practically a whisper.

“What reason would he have to cut out her implants? Why cut out her tongue?” Joan pressed, squaring her shoulders as Sherlock stared her down.

“He was attempting to make a statement.” Sherlock said, his own body language tensing as he stared her down from the other side of the table.

“Paula Aberdeen was killed by a single puncture wound to the side, and the other wounds were there to cover up the fact that the implants were removed, you said so yourself.” Joan kept pushing, leaning over the chair as Sherlock’s facial expression changed from wonder to anger, still she didn’t stop. “There is no feasible reason he would cover that up if he was trying to make a statement, what reason do you have for that?”

“I don’t bloody know!” He shoved the chair in front of him to the side sending it clattering into the living room and startling her into stepping back from her own, his eyes never left hers as if he was daring her to continue. “Now that Richard is dead, we won’t get to find out now will we?!”

“Sherlock.” Her voice was cool, eyes unwavering. “I am telling you, some one else killed Paula Aberdeen. Now, if you aren’t going to listen to me I will keep looking it up for myself but I will not believe that Richard would kill his girlfriend and then kill himself when the body was discovered!”

“He didn’t want to be caught, Watson. Knowing he was within the police scope he decided to take the coward’s answer. ”

“That‘s bullshit and you know it!” She was responding with equal anger now, her shoulders shaking in contained rage, “There is no reason to believe his suicide was caused by any other reason than Paula‘s death, if he killed her he would have felt relief!” Sherlock didn‘t respond, just kept his eyes locked on her own and her shoulders sagged slightly under their weight. She took a deep breath before continuing, “So you are telling me that you believe Richard Cummings killed Paula Aberdeen?” Joan couldn’t hide the disappointment in her voice. Sherlock turned, his eyes taking in the remains of their case.

“No, I do not think Richard Cummings killed Paula Aberdeen. Never did.” He said after pausing, his eyes looking up at the remaining photo of Paula, “But we need something much more convincing than the differences in how she was killed.” He turned around and faced Joan again, his eyes bright with a strange amount of pride. “Good job, Watson. If you have any ideas on that point I would be more than happy to hear them.”

“I - what?” Joan stammered, staring at him as he continued to grin at her.

“You did an excellent job holding up your point, even under disbelief and anger from some one you view to be your superior. I could burst with pride if I wasn’t famished. Now, I suggest you get us some delivery Chinese while I look deeper into the Paula Aberdeen case.” He rocked on his heels, arms coming together with a slight swing to them as he gazed at her. “Also, tea would be a good idea, we shall be up for several more hours.”

“I, uh, alright?“ Saying Joan was confused would be an understatement, as she watched Sherlock go get the chair he tossed across the room and right it as if it was the most natural thing in the world. She moved herself into the kitchen to do as he suggested. She ordered from their favorite Chinese place, being the only place that would deliver to them after the stink bug incident, and put the kettle on with an almost robotic amount of movement. The argument-not argument throwing her for an obvious loop.

Eventually she came out of her stupor enough to go assist Holmes, the two of them discussing various angles, motives, and possible people of interest. Holmes then started comparing the sheepskin fiber to the notes he had, discovering they were in fact the same so there was no doubt as to Mr. Cumming’s guilt in the Ms. Dartmouth case, which meant that this wasn‘t all some elaborate set up. There was also his obvious guilt in the other six cases, so with the hair in mind they both agreed that his guilt in the cases found today need not be contested.

The night wore on, as they pinned up and took down names, discovered alternate angles, and Holmes did various research on his phone. Eventually the night turned to early morning and Holmes sent her to bed, promising to get a few hours himself while he was looking at something in the microscope.  
He awoke her exactly flour hours later, a grin on his face as he shined his penlight in her eyes to force her out of sleep. 

“Good morning,” He said cheerfully, as she stared up at him groggily, “I will be leaving for several hours, but there is an itinerary of things for you to accomplish in my absence. I should be back before nightfall, should anyone call looking for me I expect you to act in my stead. Understood?”

Joan sat up, blinking several more times as she ran a hand through her hair, “Do stuff on list, anyone comes looking for you handle it. Got it.” He was up in a flash, disappearing down the stairs as she suddenly realized what she had agreed to, and threw off the sheets heading after him. “Wait, where are you going?!” She shouted from the landing as she saw Sherlock donning his coat.

“I am going to check a few things, do not concern yourself. The things I have left you to handle are most important and cannot wait.” He checked his jacket before looking to her with an easy air, “I believe tonight we shall be able to wrap up this whole Paula Aberdeen mess. Do as I have instructed, and we shall have a grand end to the whole affair.” There was a gleam in his eye as he finished buttoning his coat and nodded to her, “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

“Wait, Sherlock!“ She took the rest of the stairs two at a time making it to the final landing as he opened the door. He tilted his head at her as if he were doffing a hat, and with a wave of his hand went into the waiting cab. Joan almost chased after him, except that she was in an oversized tee-shirt, shorts, and no shoes. The cab drove off, and she watched it from the doorway before closing the door. Whatever Holmes was doing he could handle on his own. Joan felt the last bit of sleep leaving with that thought, and moved into the kitchen to find his list on the kitchen table with tea and the last of the scones. She smiled to herself at that bit of thoughtfulness and took a seat. She picked up the lukewarm tea and one scone before looking over the list. Then what little bit of goodwill she felt towards Holmes evaporated while she read it over. The list would appear to be a long series of scribbles entailing chores and to-dos befitting of a married couple. She grumbled to herself as she leaned back, and looked over the list again.

“Appointment at three pm, dry cleaning, check mail, seriously?” Joan was biting the inside of her cheek in irritation as she looked over the list one more time before standing and setting it aside. Important seemed like a major overestimation. She contemplated calling him, until she noticed his phone sitting on the table a few inches from the note. Joan let out a noise of irritation, ran a hand through her hair, and decided she may as well get started. 

Dry cleaning turned out to be one item, with a note tacked on it with her name and instruction to not open it under any circumstances. Joan figured it had to be gimp suit, or something equally unmentionable, and took it without question. The mail had a single overnight package addressed to Sherlock, and, after accidentally ruining one of Sherlock’s experiments by opening his mail, she knew better than to open that too. The appointment on the other hand was of the most concern to her, it was for herself but she didn’t know who she’d be meeting. She made herself a cold lunch as the clock clicked past two, only to hear the buzzer over an hour early. Opening the door she found Ms. Hudson, blonde hair in gentle waves and a large smile on her lips.

“This, isn’t what I was expecting.” Joan said happily as she let her inside, if her appointment was merely to keep Ms. Hudson company there were worse ways to spend an afternoon. Ms. Hudson moved past her, leaving Joan to shut the door. Joan noticed that she was carrying a rather large white bag with her as she passed, but she simply attributed it to Ms. Hudson spending a few days with them again.

“Don’t worry, Sherlock called the right person for this.” She said as she moved into the living room and set down the large white case on their dining table. “I’m surprised this didn’t happen before.”

“What do you mean?” Joan didn’t bother hiding the confusion in her voice as she stared at the large white case with trepidation. 

“You and Sherlock.”

Joan felt a cold chill on her back as she started connecting a few dots, “Me and Sherlock, what?” She pressed, hoping she was wrong.

“Oh, don’t play coy with me.” Ms. Hudson replied, a conspiratorial grin on her lips as she did so. “Now come sit down, and expect this to take awhile.”

“I think you’ve got this wrong-” Joan tried to explain as Ms. Hudson guided her into a chair with that same wide grin, and immediately opened the box to show a wide array of makeup, hair products, and supplies. She pulled out a large mirror and set it up as she started moving out colors.

“Sherlock was right to call me you know, I’ve been studying the fine art of glamour for years, and my rates are much more reasonable than any city make up artist.” She said with a smile as she began laying things out with a concentrated air.

“What, exactly is all this about?” Joan finally asked, her hand reaching to stop Ms. Hudson’s from applying a concealer to her nose. Ms. Hudson tilted her head in confusion, until she seemed to reach some form of epiphany about the situation.

“You mean, he didn’t tell you?” She said after a moment, and then added with a frown, “typical Sherlock.”

“No kidding,” Joan responded, a smirk on her lips.

“I suppose he is keeping it a secret for a reason,” she mused aloud, and Joan tried to interject but Ms. Hudson held up her hand to silence her, “No, I will not spoil his surprise. But to keep you from refusing letting me work my magic, you are supposed to be going a rather fancy get together and Sherlock asked me to make sure you looked like perfection itself.” There was a mark of pride in her words, but she also caught Joan moving to stand. “Now, you are going to let me do this, or I will tie you to that chair.”

Joan almost laughed at the notion, but the look on Ms. Hudson’s face told her that this was no idle threat. She submitted and Ms. Hudson gave the most girlish giggle before pulling out her chosen palette and going to work. Joan had to admit it was sort of nice, they talked about things that had nothing to do with Paula Aberdeen‘s murder, for the first time in three days, and Ms. Hudson kept complimenting her eyes. She could almost imagine what a slumber party with a younger Ms. Hudson would have been like, and how enjoyable it would have been.

The day ticked on, and the New York light was turning golden with late afternoon when Ms. Hudson finally announced that she was finished. She adjusted Joan one last time with that same easy smile on her lips before adjusting the mirror so Joan could see herself.

“Wow, you weren’t kidding.” Joan said with a touch of awe, she barely recognized herself. Her skin was perfectly smooth, smoky eyes with a slight shimmer of a silver on the edges, lips in a deep red and cheeks a soft pink that made her look like a model. “You sure you aren’t licensed in this?”

“No, I was too busy with my ancient and modern greek classes.” Ms. Hudson said with pride as she adjusted the soft curls in Joan’s hair with a satisfied hum, “But I wanted the attention of certain men, and that meant making myself look attractive to them. I found out quickly I had a knack for it.” 

Joan laughed softly at that, she could almost imagine a smoky eyed Ms. Hudson capturing many a boy’s attention, “Well thank you, though I wish I knew what all this was for.” 

“You’re not getting a word from me, but you’d best go upstairs and get dressed.” She handed Joan the bag that she had collected from dry cleaning and nudged her upstairs.

“Wait, Sherlock said not to open this!” Joan’s eyes went wide with fear, the things that said DO NOT TOUCH from Sherlock meant poisons, toxins, and explosives, but Ms. Hudson only giggled in response. 

“He just did that to keep you from spoiling the surprise.” She gave Joan a wink that Joan almost corrected before a knock on the door drew her attention. She tried to step to open it, but Ms. Hudson barred the way, “Ah-ah-ah, you go upstairs this instant and get ready, I’ll handle whomever is at the door.”

Joan opened her mouth to argue, but a fierce look from Ms. Hudson made her think better of it. She went upstairs and could hear Ms. Hudson speaking with some one before she got to her door and closed it behind her. She hoped that Ms. Hudson was correct about this piece of dry cleanning, because if it was a gimp suit she was going to give Sherlock hell. She was relieved that when she did open it she found beautiful red fabric, and another note pinned to it.

“I hope this helps, let me know if you ever need anything else.- Rebecca.” Joan read aloud, before pulling out what had to be the most beautiful, and expensive, dress she had ever held in her life. Her fingers touched the silk covetously, this dress had to be worth several thousand dollars as two types of silk lined it in an a-symmetrical line from the off-center v-neck. It fell to a weighted bottom, and part of her felt guilty even holding it. 

“You’d better be getting dressed!” She heard Ms. Hudson shout from below and laughed to herself before pulling out of the day’s wear and easing herself into the dress. She pulled out a pair of ankle high boots to go with it, and was putting those on when there was a knock at her door. It opened a moment later and Ms. Hudson showed herself in with a large smile on her lips. “He wasn’t kidding, that dress is amazing.”

“Wait, you knew about the dress too?” Joan frowned and Ms. Hudson merely waved a hand dismissively. 

“Of course, why else do you think he paid me to do your make up. If I hadn’t known the color of your dress I could have made your make up clash terribly.” She spoke of it with the gravity of death, but her steps were still light as she reached out and adjusted the dress with one hand. “Now, Gregson is waiting downstairs, apparently Holmes called him too, and I have one final thing to give you.” She pulled out two boxes, and handed them to her. The first box had a beautiful chain of pearls, and the second a bracelet that she could swear was genuine diamonds and rubies. “I expect these back in perfect condition, or Holmes will pay for their replacement. You’d best remind him of that.”

Joan nodded as she looked down at the beautiful jewelry before Ms. Hudson began helping her get them in place. Ms. Hudson eventually decreed she was fit to go downstairs, and both women took to the stairs. Gregson was standing in the hallway, looking a bit uncomfortable as Ms. Hudson linked arms with Joan. It seemed Gregson had dressed in his best as well, a classic tux, fresh shined shoes, but he wore the same jacket he always had with him. 

“Please tell me you know what’s going on.” Gregson said as he saw her, relief on his face, but Joan’s frown squashed it. “Holmes left a note for me at the station, telling me to be here at six o’clock and ‘dressed to the nines’. This had better be worth it.” He grumbled.

“Unfortunately, I know as much as you do, probably less.” Joan apologized as she stood at the landing, “And it’s already fifteen past six.”

At that moment the door flew open, and Holmes burst through. His coat was filthy, his face smeared with what she could only guess to be mud, and out of breath. “Forgive me for being late, but I beg your indulgence as there is no time to spare.” He raised a hand to silence any questions and with a dry cleaning bag over his shoulder ran up the stairs. A moment later they heard the door to his room slam.

“So much for getting answers.” Gregson responded, both of them staring up after him.

“Captain, you did bring your car correct?” Sherlock shouted down from his room, and Gregson shook his head with a smirk on his face.

“Yeah, everything you asked for is in it.”

“Excellent, I suggest you and Ms. Watson head to the car, I will be down presently, we have no time to spare.” Sherlock called again, and Gregson shrugged in defeat before heading to the door. “Oh, and Watson, do get the package that was delivered and open it, we’ll need those invitations or it’s all for naught.”

Watson sighed and did as asked before joining Gregson in his car. Holmes, as promised, did not take long, showing up with a still wet face and a slightly rumpled tux as he threw himself into the vehicle, “Captain if you would be so good as to drive us to Per Se, I wish to be fashionably late, not missing the festivities.” He said it with his normal amount of frustration, and both she and Gregson simply shrugged. He put the car in drive and began the trek to Per Se.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has read, and those who have kudo'd . Special thanks to JenniferEsther and kalima for leaving comments! We have one more chapter to go and I hope you'll all stick around for the finale!


	5. We'll Meet Again

Despite multiple attempts to question him, Sherlock gave away nothing for the entire drive. He just kept saying that they would know when the time came, and that he had to be absolutely sure. This seemed rather extravagant for an attempt to corroborate, but once they got to Per Se both Gregson and herself had given up their attempt to get information. Joan also analyzed the invitation, but the only information was that it was a charity gala and told her nothing except that this was going to be some rather rich party-goers. She thought of asking how on earth Sherlock even got these tickets, but considering the fact that he wasn’t responding to more pertinent questions she thought better of it. Gregson pulled up outside and Sherlock was out in an instant, opening Joan’s door and offering a hand to her before looking to Gregson.

“Follow the instructions I’ve given, and I’ll see you inside.” He nodded to him and Gregson simply shook his head in response as Sherlock offered his arm to Joan, “Shall we?” 

Joan took the arm offered, looking around herself as they entered, “Are you going to tell me what we’re doing here?” She whispered between the clenched teeth of a false smile.

“Best not to ruin the surprise,” He whispered to her as they took the stairs and began to meet the milling throng of the New York elite.

“Will you at least tell me how you got an invitation to this?” Joan smiled to a curious gaze, before focusing back in on Sherlock, “Or what our cover is?”  
“The provider of this particular gala owed me a favor.” He gave a confident grin at that as they cleared the staircase and moved into the meeting hall. Though Per Se was hosting the event, they were not using the restaurant itself and instead it was hosted in the large ballroom. “And our cover is simple, you are a surgeon and I shall be myself.”

The tables were set up beautifully, soft blue lighting and intricate light structures, a lit ice sculpture, and even an area for dancing with a string quartet for their entertainment. Joan had never been in a place so decadent as the entire room had been set up with beautiful flowers, plants, and lighting that made it seem otherworldly. Sherlock tightened his hold on her arm slightly, and she turned her attention to him. “Our table is the closest to the orchestra on the right, I shall meet you there in twenty minutes, until then I suggest you mingle.” He had leaned close to whisper into her ear under the pretense of curling a bit of loose hair behind her ear, and Joan gave a slight nod of understanding. They separated, Sherlock disappearing into the crowd as Joan went to leave the small white clutch she carried where her seat was.

The curious eyes were slightly unnerving since she was not normally privy to such functions, still she met them with a confident smile and a sure gaze. She kept up that sure charade until she got to her table and finished her quest to set down her clutch. Now she was left oscillating at her chair and looking over the crowd. She attempted to spot Sherlock, but the ballroom was shadowy and she couldn‘t find him anywhere. She was about to genuinely try to hunt him down when a man stepped up to her with a confident smile. 

He had perfectly white teeth, bronze skin, and brown hair that was perfectly movie star-styled. He moved with confidence in a fine Italian suit as he stepped directly toward her. “Dr. Joan Watson?” He asked, and his voice carried a very faded accent of some form. She found herself searching for where she could possibly know him from.

“Sorry, do I know you?” Joan asked when her mind came up a blank, and he simply smiled again with a soft laugh following the motion.

“No, no, do forgive the assumption. I spied your card as we are seated at the same table.”

“Oh,” Joan said with relief, moving away from her chair as he offered a hand to her.

“I am Dr. Jean Clauette, and I cannot tell you how relieved I am to have a fellow doctor at my table.” He was laughing again as they shook hands, Joan feeling similar relief. “You are a surgeon, yes?”

“Oh, yes, how did you know?” Joan felt a bit of deja-vu at the mentioning, but his eyes never left her face and she made sure she wasn’t using beeswax for her hands.

“Intuition, I was a surgeon myself before I moved to cosmetic surgeries.” He kept that same conspiratorial tone. 

“Oh? The hours must be much nicer at least.” Joan forced herself to smile. So he was one of those, moving from helping people to making a fortune out of female insecurity. She would insult him if they were in different company, but here a cosmetic surgeon was probably the least grimy of most of the millionaires and billionaires present at this social function. 

“Yes, much.” He responded with a nod, but his eyes were distracted looking at the crowd before returning to her. “Forgive me, I must mingle with a few of my fellows. Would you care to join me?” He offered his arm, and it took every bit of her patience to not make a snide remark.

“Oh, no thank you. I’m waiting for some one myself, but I’ll see you later.”

“I can almost guarantee it as we are at the same table.” He bowed at the waist and moved back into the throng as she felt a breath of relief leave her in a sigh. 

She decided to mingle then, putting distance between herself and the would-be doctor. Dr. Clauette was not as slimy as most plastic surgeons, but there was something in the way he looked at her and spoke that made her skin crawl. She went into the crowd with the plan to get refreshments, but found herself stopped every few feet by some one introducing themselves, making small talk, and Joan began categorizing them on her way to the back bar.

There were several debutants, one of which was here with her fiancée, another with her girlfriend, and the third was here with her adulterous paramour. Two heiresses, sisters who were here together and were quite philanthropic, most of the high league of wall street, four foreign bankers who conveniently left their wives back in their home country, six models, two more surgeons, and no less than ten major broadway actors. She’d feel more blessed to be here if it wasn’t for the fact that almost everyone here was so arrogant, sure of their riches, and trying to compete with their peers that it brought to mind a dog show. She felt relief when she finally got to the refreshments, grabbed herself the nearest glass of wine with guilt, and began to trek back to her table.

Sherlock was not there when she returned, even with it being close to forty-five minutes since she saw him, and she quickly drained her wine and set the glass down next to her place card. Sherlock did leave his jacket though, so she must have missed him in the impossible trek to the refreshments. Amuse-bouche we’re being carried on silver trays by severe looking wait staff and she grabbed the nearest to her with a gentle smile to the long suffering wait staff. The evening continued to pass with herself and Sherlock missing one another, the second time she returned he had stolen his napkin and disappeared while she had been in close conversation with Gregson who finally made an appearance, he was apparently sitting somewhere else. The third time she saw him disappear into the crowd just as she escaped from a group of women who would not stop talking about her dress.

It would appear they were going to be constantly served a variety of small snacks, and Joan kept her desperate hunger at bay while she found herself engaged in conversation once again with Dr. Clauette. So far no one had actually struck her as Paula Aberdeen’s killer, there were three plastic surgeons in attendance, but it seemed unlikely they would be the ones, and Paula was not quite A-list enough to be killed out of jealousy. 

Still, despite being slimy, Dr. Jean Clauette was good company. He was apparently French who came over to America for med school and never left. He went to a prestigious university, his family was loaded, and he was unmarried. He asked her to dance a total of four times and she only accepted once, and it was returning from that that she finally ran into Sherlock.

Sherlock approached them immediately, and quickly took her arm with an easy grin that was hiding more malice than she expected. “How are you doing, my dear?” He asked, and stressed the endearment which had her looking up to him confused.

“I’m fine, Sherlock.” She was more annoyed than she intended to be, but Sherlock just kept smiling and eyeing Dr. Clauette. “Sherlock, this is Dr. Jean Clauette, Jean this is Sherlock Holmes.”

“I’ve heard of your work.” Jean said, an easy smile as he offered his hand, but Sherlock refused it, instead tightening his grip on Joan.

“You promised me a dance, Watson. I was hoping we could use this time to do so.” He gave a very cold nod to Dr. Clauette before, somewhat forcibly, guiding Joan towards the dance floor.

“Sherlock, can you even dance?” She asked as he made of show of moving them directly into the center of the floor and quickly took one hand in his and pulled the other to his shoulder. 

“Dance lessons are quite common in boarding schools, it’s expected for every insufferable party with far flung royals and heiresses your father imposes on you.” He said it bitterly as he placed his hand just below her shoulder as the band began to play. He relaxed as he began to move her in a rather easy waltz once the music began, “but it has proven itself a useful skill to maintain.” He said as he began to move her in a circle and keeping a polite amount of space between them. “I see you have befriended Dr. Clauette,” He leaned to whisper close to her ear as he kept his head turned from hers. He pulled her a little closer, as he moved her into a quicker circle, his feet between hers as he moved her around the floor with a confidence she was surprised by. 

“What of it?” She asked as he eased them into another waltzing motion and kept his grip on her hand without pressure.

“Keep an eye on him,” He said after a moment as he leaned to dip her, pulling her downward before moving back up to small gasps of appreciation. She hadn’t noticed people were beginning to spread away from them, too busy maintaining balance and following Sherlock’s rather obvious bodily cues for their next movement.

“Is he who we’re here to watch?” she whispered to him, before he spun her outward, holding her hand fast before pulling her back in and replaced his hand beneath her shoulder as she placed hers on his. 

“No, but I have met the man before.” They were moving again in the ease of a waltz, Sherlock’s gaze following those on the floor, as they were given a rather wide berth by the other dancers, which would appear to have been his plan by his rather flamboyant display. “He is a rather prolific womanizer, and has been known to be of a rather unscrupulous character.”

“Sherlock, I can handle myself.” She couldn’t believe what she was hearing, he was worried she was going to fall for some full of himself plastic surgeon? She rolled her eyes as the music dwindled and he stopped them before separating himself. “Are you going to tell me who we are here for?” 

“In due time, but for now I believe I’d best speak with Captain Gregson. I shall return to our table in due time.” And he was gone, disappearing into the crowd as she sat in the center of the dance floor amongst a few whispered words and fading applause. Left on the dance floor, she would feel embarrassed if it was anyone other than Sherlock. To be honest, she was amazed he made it through the whole song.

Despite Sherlock’s warning, when Dr. Clauette waved her toward him and his fellow surgeons she took the offer. Talking medicine was so much easier than current fashion trends, stock trends, or banking trends and she found herself concentrating on each of them with a deeper suspicion. The implants were removed, and even though the hand was shaky it would take a knowledge of how they were put in to get them out intact. No fragments of silicone were found, and she kept her mind open as they discussed. Still she felt a plastic surgeon was too obvious to keep Sherlock’s attention, and he hadn’t been within ten feet of any of these men except Dr. Clauette and he was snubbed the moment they met eyes.

She returned to her table with Clauette, sharing the horror stories of on-call rotations just out of med school, and finally caught sight of Sherlock. He was in deep whispered conversation with Gregson, and she was about to excuse herself with Clauette place his hand on her arm with more force than she expected. “I hope you will understand it gives me no pleasure to have to do this.” He said quietly and she felt something cool against the small of her back, “But your friends are known to me, and I would prefer to leave without being accosted.”

“And if you scream, I will be forced to shoot you.“ He whispered against her ear with a vicious hiss that told her this was no idle threat. He shoved her and she tried to make meaningful eyes with Sherlock and Gregson, but they were too engrossed and too far away as he began leading her through the winding orchids and hibiscus toward the silver door of the wait staff entrance. 

“I think you have this all wrong,” She said gently as he backed into the door, and kept a hand on her shoulder to keep her from running as they moved from the soft blue and yellow lights of the party to the bright white of more utilitarian spaces.

“Oh? Captain Gregson of the NYPD and the renowned Sherlock Holmes appear at a party together, with you and this is all mere coincidence?” His voice was vicious as he turned her around and began leading her out. “I am thankful you know, without you I was unsure I would make it out, but there is no chance the great Sherlock Holmes would endanger his lady friend.”

“I’m not-”

“Quiet. Holmes has wanted me for years, and I will not let him grab me now.” He tensed his arm as he led her into the shadows as some wait staff passed with champagne and she heard the noise of the party quiet as a microphone was tested. It appeared the speech for the charity was about to be made, and so all the wait staff was out delivering drinks for a toast. He had obviously planned for this since they came across no one as he lead her towards the back door. 

“Open it,” He whispered, and shoved the gun into her back with enough force that she was sure he had ripped the silk. She opened the door, and saw a backstreet and a car waiting. 

“You really came prepared didn’t you?” 

“One has to be ready for anything, no?” He said with a slight laugh, “Now I am sorry to say I shall have to take you with me-” But he silenced as he saw Sherlock step out of the shadows beside the car, a fierce and angry look in his eyes.

“I knew you were a willing to do many things, but kidnapping my date seems low even for you Clauette.” He was keeping his tone even, but Joan could see the way he was clenching his hands showed how much he was restraining himself.

“Well, I had to be sure of your cooperation Mr. Holmes, now I suggest you let me take Dr. Watson or I may be forced to do something to harm her.” Sherlock lifted his head, hiding the frown on his face as he stared Clauette down. 

“I am not letting you leave Clauette,” He said quietly, and Joan felt the gun twist into her back as he bent her backwards against it, his hand on her shoulder sure to leave bruises. 

“Then I am afraid we are at odds Mr. Holmes,” He twisted the gun again and she winced, she could feel the muzzle creating a bruise as she kept her eyes on Holmes. She wasn’t sure what she was waiting for, a sign of some kind, a clue or a tic that would tell her what to do. Instead he was standing perfectly still, eyes on hers with something between fear and anger. “I am sorry, Ms. Watson,” 

She felt his fingers lift to hit the safety and could wait no longer. She leaned back, shoving him back against the door they came through and lifted her heel as high as she could to catch him in the leg and raising her elbow to hit him in the face. The arm on her shoulder gave way and she turned, grabbing for the weapon as she heard Sherlock’s feet on the pavement. The gun went off and she winced and shoved upward, and could feel a sting and the sound of ripping material. 

Sherlock grabbed him, calling out as she saw not only Gregson but several uniformed officers running to where Sherlock was holding the gun man, before the gun was taken from his fingers and Sherlock stepped back while the officers forced him to submit. 

Joan’s hands were holding her side, her body burning as she felt a bit of slickness against her hand as she leaned back against the wall. Her other hand reached up and realized that somewhere in the fight her pearls had been ripped from her throat. Sherlock was moving her hand, eyeing the wound with intense eyes before looking up to her. “It missed you, only a graze.” He said with visible relief before looking over her, his shoulders tensing as his hands moved from her shoulder to tilting her head to look at her neck. “Forgive Watson, I had not considered he would take you by force.”

“Wait - what?!” She was livid as Gregson came over, looking her over as she stared daggers at Sherlock. “You set me up as bait?!” She was screaming at him as Gregson quickly stepped in to stop her from hitting him.

“You knew about this Holmes?” Gregson asked, looking severe as he handed Watson the medkit from the patrol car as she finally dared to look at the small wound and the state of her beautiful dress. 

“Not precisely, Captain. I had thought he was going to offer to take Ms. Watson home, and I would suggest she do so giving us ample excuse to look through his apartment. I did not consider that he was going to use his gun to take her by force.” Sherlock explained as he leaned down to assist Watson in dressing her wounds.

“You knew he had a gun, and you used me as bait.” Joan said calmer this time, and leaned her head back against the wall. “You are so lucky the adrenaline is wearing off Sherlock.” 

“I’m glad you’re ok Joan,” Gregson said, before looking to Sherlock, “And you ever pull a stunt like this again Holmes I’m not only going to bar you from working for the NYPD, I’m going to give you a beating like you have never experienced.” He left then to talk to the officers and leaving them alone as Joan reached up to move her hair behind her ear.

“I am so sorry, Joan.” He said it so softly she almost didn’t catch it, his fingers finishing with the bandage as he stood and looked at her meaningfully. “I knew he was armed, but I did not consider he would take this course of action.” His face spoke of shame as he turned and leaned against the wall beside her. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you suspected him?” Joan asked, her eyes taking in Sherlock’s profile as he frowned, eyes raw and body tense.

“I needed to see how he interacted without bias, so I placed you in his path sure he could not pass up how attractive you were. I did not want your body language to clue him in to the fact that you were suspicious of him.” He leaned his head back, and she heard it thud against the brick. “I did not realize he had seen Gregson, or that his guilty conscience would lead him to act so drastically.” 

“He said you’d been after him before.” 

“Yes, in Marseilles. A girl died soon after he operated on her, I suspected foul play to hide something that went wrong with the surgery, but I could not prove it.” 

“So, Paula Aberdeen. .” Joan said with a quiet wonder, it made sense, something went wrong with the implants and so he removed them by force. “Do you think he knew about Cummings?” 

“No, he merely capitalized on a known killer in the area.” He shook his head as he finally looked over to her, “believe me Watson, I never intended you to come to harm.”

Despite how mad she knew she should be with him, she reached over and placed her hand on his shoulder, a small smile on her lips. “I know, even you can’t know everything.”

“That would appear to be true. I did not know that you would take him down so expertly, you will make quite the prolific fighter once you allow me to supply you with lessons.” Sherlock said, and Joan rolled her eyes in response. “Shall we?” He offered her his arm, and she looked down at herself with a frown.

“Rebecca’s poor dress, she’s going to hate getting it back like this, and you owe Ms. Hudson a new string of pearls.” Her eyes not hiding her dismay of the state of her beautiful dress. It was ripped in several places from the struggle, one of her straps barely holding on not to mention the rather large hole caused by the gun. He offered his arm again, and she took it as he led her out of the alley and hailed a cab. 

“I’ll pay to have it fixed, I am sure Ms. Verace will be more than happy to ensure it is done expertly.” He smiled slightly as the cab eased over and he looked down to her, “I’d hate to have your best dress ruined irreparably.”

He opened the cab door as she gaped at him, and he quickly crossed to the other side and entering to sit beside her, giving instructions as she stared at him. “It’s. . .mine?”

“Quite so. I realized you had nothing to wear to such a function, and Ms. Verace gave me a rate I could hardly scoff at.” Sherlock kept a small smile on his face the whole ride home as she stared with wonder at her dress. 

Once at the brownstone he quickly exited and opened her door for her, handing her the white clutch she brought with her. She hadn’t even realized he pocketed it, but he gave her a secret smile before offering his arm and leading her up to the brownstone. “I hope you didn’t find the evening a total loss, Watson.” His voice still held a guilty tone as he unlocked the door and opened it for them, “and that you’ll consider doing this again at some point in the future.”

“What, being bait?” She said with more venom than she intended, he recoiled at her tone. “Sorry,” she said after a moment, and Sherlock nodded. 

“You’d best freshen up Watson, and I request that you return and let me redress your wound. The job I managed to do was hardly satisfactory.” Joan nodded slightly as Sherlock moved into the kitchen to set the kettle on. When she came down ten minutes later he was in the living room in his armchair, two cups of tea on the nearby table. 

She crossed to obtain her tea and stopped when his hand touched her wrist, his eyes searching her own. She smiled, and he relaxed before handing her the mug of tea. She took it gratefully taking a sip as Sherlock raised and guided her into the kitchen. The first aid kit was already sitting out, and he offered her a chair which she sat on backwards before leaning over and pulling out gauze, tape, antiseptic wipes, and ointment started working on the graze that was just above her left hip.

“What did you mean when you asked if I would do this again some time?” Joan asked as she winced at the sting of the antiseptic swab. 

“Well,” Sherlock said hesitantly his vocals betraying how unsure he was, “ I was hoping that the evenings events have not soured your opinion of that dress or my company enough that you would refuse to allow me to take you out for dinner.” His wording was so strangely formal and Joan looked down to see him genuinely embarrassed. His facial expression sheepish and self-aware.

“Are you asking me out on a date, Sherlock?” Joan asked, mirth evident in her tone as he placed the gauze and stood up quickly and avoided her gaze.

“Technically I’ve already taken you on one, as you were my date for tonight’s affair.” Sherlock said, and Joan couldn’t help laughing as his facial expression turned from embarrassed to insulted. “What? I was the envy of the event.”

“Hardly, though you could of told me that you knew how to dance.” Joan said with a smirk, and Sherlock moved to the opposite chair with an easier body language. “So is it true that your father forced you to learn to dance.”

“Every word, though I usually made a scene to get out of lessons or simply played the music for everyone else to dance to. Still, some of it rubbed off on me.” There was more than a little resentment in his wording, but he was relaxing as he took a long sip of his tea. An easy silence came over them as Joan leaned over the backing of the chair and rested her head on her hands and Sherlock stared past her into the living room.

“I accept,” she said after a few moments, and Sherlock came out of his distracted stare to stare at her with confused frown. “Your offer to take me out again, I accept. But this time, no gun men.”

“I promise, I need to make up for tonight’s events after all.” He matched her smirk with one of his own as Joan stretched and started to stand. “I have reservations at Brooklyn Fare for next Friday, I should have your dress in pristine condition once more by then.”

“What’s the occasion?” Joan asked, the fact that he had most likely made these reservations far in advance not lost on her.

“We’ll have been partners for a year, I believe it an occasion worth celebrating.” He smiled to himself as he spoke, his eyes staring into his tea intently.

Joan stood, smiling herself as she put away the gauze and tape before closing up the medkit. Then she picked up her mug, placing it in the sink. Sherlock stayed still, eyes staring into his mug as she crossed back to his side and leaned over, placing a light kiss on his cheek. He froze and Joan couldn’t help the smile. “Thanks for an interesting evening, Sherlock. See you in the morning.”

He didn’t stop her, but she caught him smiling as she started up the stairs toward her room. For the first time in four days she was going to get a good night’s sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for following along in this journey, and I hope you all have enjoyed the story! Thanks to everyone who reviewed and kudo'd the story!


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